Leprechaun

It's a dirty, early, toothless morning on Pitt St
deserted, dead cabs, papers no-one will read
all piled up on the gutter, amongst them a woman
with eyelids the colour of night.

She lies in the shreddings of corporate secrets
and smiles at the wind on her eyes. Even though someone
must know her, she knows that she's better off lonely
than being fucked over by spite.

Her eyes flicker wrongly, they work inside out and
they open and close on a steel plated heart.
The world grunts, and she mouths it and whispers a spit
as she curses 'hello' and she starts:

My husband divorced me, I came up from Melbourne,
I'm waiting for welfare and can't get a job;
I don't mean to beg, and I hate it, but please sir,
believe me I'll soon be allright.

I'm not on drugs [her eyes spiel] I don't drink
[she she moans] please believe me [like I do] I'm gonna be fine.
If you spare me some change [what you can] then just maybe
I'll [keep living this masochist plight].

Well practised theatrics, switched smiling and sobbing
perfected by need, bet she calls it her art.
[Oh] She's not deceiving me, someone is her,
and so bleakly we'll both play our parts.

She continues her prattle, I empty my pocket
She stops, and says 'thankyou' and 'bless you' and grins
I smile back, not with valour, or pity, or pride
but respect for our stupid shared sin.

I walk slowly, she nestles, I wonder, she sleeps,
As we go separate ways we weave tighter our plight.
She lies at the arse end of a gray neon rainbow;
I live, as ever, in spite.